“Snap!” said he.  The jackal instantly rose and trotted to him, fawning on his outstretched hand.

“You malign me, Miss Westonhaugh.  Snap is no less obedient than I.”

“Then why did you insist on playing tennis left-handed the other day, though you know very well how it puzzles me?”

“My dear Miss Westonhaugh,” he answered, “I am not a tennis-player at all, to begin with, and as I do not understand the finesse of the game, to use a word I do not understand either, you must pardon my clumsiness in employing the hand most convenient and ready.”

“Some people,” I began, “are what is called ambidexter, and can use either hand with equal ease.  Now the ancient Persians, who invented the game of polo——­”

“I do not quarrel so much with you, Mr. Isaacs—­” as she said this, she looked at me, though entirely disregarding and interrupting my instructive sentence—­“I don’t quarrel with you so much for using your left hand at tennis as for employing left-handed weapons when you speak of other things, or beings, for you are never so left-handed and so adroit as when you are indulging in some elaborate abuse of our sex.”

“How can you say that?” protested Isaacs.  “You know with what respectful and almost devotional reverence I look upon all women, and,” his eyes brightening perceptibly, “upon you in particular.”

English women, especially in their youth, are not used to pretty speeches.  They are so much accustomed to the men of their own nationality that they regard the least approach to a compliment as the inevitable introduction to the worst kind of insult.  Miss Westonhaugh was no exception to this rule, and she drew herself up proudly.

There was a moment’s pause, during which Isaacs seemed penitent, and she appeared to be revolving the bearings of the affront conveyed in his last words.  She looked along the floor, slowly, till she might have seen his toes; then her eyes opened a moment and met his, falling again instantly with a change of colour.

“And pray, Mr. Isaacs, would you mind giving us a list of the ladies you look upon with ‘respectful and devotional reverence?’” One of the horses held by the saice at the corner of the lawn neighed lowly, and gave Isaacs an opportunity of looking away.

“Miss Westonhaugh,” he said quietly, “you know I am a Mussulman, and that I am married.  It may be that I have borrowed a phrase from your language which expresses more than I would convey, though it would ill become me to withdraw my last words, since they are true.”

It was my turn to be curious now.  I wondered where his boldness would carry him.  Among his other accomplishments, this man was capable of speaking the truth even to a woman, not as a luxury and a bonne bouche, but as a matter of habit.  As I looked, the hot blood mantled up to his brows.  She was watching him, and womanlike, seeing he was in earnest and embarrassed, she regained her perfect natural composure.